To Long Endure: The War of Separation
by Ragnosk
Summary: Hetalia interpretation of the American Civil War. England learns that war has broken out the United States and feels it's up to him to try and make sure America makes it out alright. America fights for the Union, feeling the pains of both the Union and the Confederacy. England parts written by fantasy/scifi author Brandan Chapman and America parts written by Matthew B.
1. Chapter 1

England sat in his library, drinking tea, reading the newspaper of the day. His tea steamed while the hot liquid sat untouched. He was too focused on what he was reading to notice. The newspaper read that America had declared war within itself, not more than a century on his own. England was shocked. Did he do something wrong?

England sighed as the newspaper tilted back in his hands. He noticed the tea. Quickly, he took a sip. England's expression changed as he noticed it was Earl Grey, and not English Breakfast. At this point, he didn't mind. He knew now that he had to do something. _A Civil War_. He didn't think such a thing would happen. He stood up, leaving the paper by his tea. He had to get changed and pack.

England rang the service bell. His butler came in within seconds.

"Sebastian, please let George know that I will be up to change in a bit." George was England's valet.

Sebastian nodded and replied, "May I ask why you are in such a rushed state?"

"I must leave at once. I need to pack my things and take my leave to America."

Sebastian simply nodded once more. He walked out and shut the door. England leaned against a nearby bookshelf. He wondered what everyone else would think. Would they blame him? After giving America his independence, he was a bit of a joke.

With another sigh, England walked back to his tea and gulped it down. It was unlike him to do so, but where he was going, he may not get a chance for more tea.

* * *

America stood there with a grim expression on his face, what other expression had he? As he stared out the window watching line after line of blue go by he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. They were returning from a bitter defeat at a place called Bull Run creek. Now it was official, now it was real. He had felt the change within himself the moment it had started of course, the indescribable feeling that he wasn't the same person he had been when he had gone to sleep the night before. He didn't dislike who he had become really, but he knew he shouldn't stay this way. His was mostly the same that he always was but he felt hollow, like a book that has had some of its pictures ripped out.

"They look so beaten," He mumbled and felt a slight bit of discuss as they went by. He immediately hated himself for that thought. When he saw the splashes of brown in the blue and remembered how many of them were just militia, hardly an army really. They were mostly young boys who had never seen a fight, and it wasn't like it was their entire fault. The higher ranking officers had let them down. He could only imagine the look of shock and discuss that dawned his face when the order to retreat came. He felt like disobeying and rallying any solider that would follow him, but what he could do? To all of them he was just a _very_ young looking Lieutenant.

"Hope I haven't kept you long son." He heard the aged but strong voice say from behind him. He was so lost in thought that he hadn't heard the door open.

"Not at all sir." He replied and spun around to form the perfect salute. President Lincoln sat down at his desk and sighed. The sadness in his expression was so palpable that America could _feel_ it emitting from him.

"So tell me…" the President began."…because I have the feeling that any high ranking officer will not give me an accurate picture of what happen….how bad was it?"

The young looking man took a little time before responding. "In truth, I thought we were close to breaking them early on, but it came undone before I knew what was happening. I'd say the boys have bigger wounds to their pride then anything." He said finally and tried to sound joyful for the first time in months.

"Well, I wish the papers had your positive outlook about it…" Lincoln said and looked outside the window at the moving lines of blue.

"Their having plenty of good things to write about when we lick'em next time!" America said with confidence and clinched his fist. He then instantly tried to adjust the glasses that were no longer on his face, and the bitter taste returned to his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

England was leaving his house. He knew the first person he had to visit before attempting to see America. He had to see the Queen and the Prime Minister. England _had_ to know where they stood on the situation.

His horse and carriage took but a few hours to reach Buckingham Palace. The Prime Minister was already in attendance. England could tell by the way journalists snooped around the palace gates. He did his best to keep to the other diplomats that entered, to avoid any questions.

The palace sounded as if was hosting a party. Voices carried over every room, everyone trying to scream at each other. England knew why. They were trying to decide who to side with in this dispute.

"You, there boy!" A voice shouted from across the entrance.

It was Prime Minister Viscount Palmerston. He beckoned England over. "We need you inside the Queen's throne room."

England wasn't sure how to feel about this. He knew that the Crown was becoming an icon, rather than have any real influence. But he also knew that Victoria was always trying to keep her opinion, in these matters, much alive.

The throne room was beautiful. The throne sat at the far end, like some old medieval tale. Victoria sat upon the throne, majestic and graceful. As England reached her, he bowed.

"Your Majesty." He spoke to the ground.

"Glad to see you have kept up with the news."

England felt shy in her presence for some reason. So much has changed since King William IV and King George IV, but he still felt he had made a mockery of his country.

"As I was telling Her Grace, I believe we should keep out of this situation." The Prime Minister spoke.

England frowned. He adjusted his suit jacket. "If Your Majesty would pay my opinion any heed, we can't just let America tear itself apart," England said.

"What would affect us if we would just remain neutral, as Palmerston has spoken?"

"Exactly. Nothing would happen to us," Palmerston said. The Queen gave him a look of annoyance. "Your Majesty," He quickly added.

"But, Your Grace, we still have much trade with America. Surely we can't lose that," England retorted.

The Queen pondered this. Even the Prime Minister thought about it. "You do have a point…" He muttered.

"Is there a way we can keep from waging war with America, and stay neutral? We must keep the trade going," The Queen spoke.

"We may have to wait and see when either side sends word. Rumours are already sprawling up that the South may want us to join them, along with the help of France," The Prime Minister spoke to the two of them.

"Already?" England questioned as he dreaded the thought of actually joining the war. "But must we wait?"

"It may be our best option. Continue trade, only if they can trade back." The Queen told the Prime Minister. He nodded and took his leave. She turned towards England. "Now, it may not be as soon as you want, but I would like an up close opinion on this. I'll send word when we are ready to send you as our ambassador. If these rumours our true, we need to see how this war is going, and if our helping would cause the North to wage upon us."

That's exactly what England wanted. He wanted to see it for himself. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

* * *

 ** _Nine Months Later_**

"He is a damn _fool_." America practically hissed to himself. He was speaking of George McClellan, Major General George McClellan to be exacted. As he walked through camp with his sword clanking away at his side he had the unmistakable air of a man enraged. He along with roughly one hundred thousand men were in camped outside of Yorktown Virginia and in America's on words "they weren't doing a damn thing". McClellan had promised much when he was appointed to his position but had done little. America had actually met him once, not "as" America of course but simply as Alfred Jones First Lieutenant of the 22nd Massachusetts. He could admit that at first he was impressed with the short statured man but he came to quickly realize that much like a politician the man said one thing but wanted to achieve another. Thus all of these troops were now camped outside a city that was defended by a force of fraction of their size. He needed to do _something_ and he couldn't do that here.

It had taken a while but he had finally managed to convince the President to allow him to transfer out West where he heard and felt that real fighting was taking place. He had finished telling his regiment of his departure and had gone to the hospital to tell some of his sick men that he would be leaving them. When he had arrived he was told that another of them had passed away in the night, which resulted in his foul mood at the moment. They were dying for nothing in his mind, being taken slowly by diseases instead of their enemies' musket and canon fire.

Finally he came to his modest tent and began packing. Before he was done he heard the approach of footsteps and looked up. It was a young private, a messenger by the looks of him. He saluted before handing him a white envelope.

"Message for you sir." He said in an uneasy voice.

America saluted back and took it from him. It must have been the strangeness of the situation that was puzzling the young boy America thought. It was pretty strange to deliver a message like this to someone as low ranking as he was. If it was an official message of war business it would have gone to their Colonel. If it was a personal message it would have come in the mail like it did for all the other men.

"You're dismissed." America said swiftly to end the boy's curiosity. He had little time to worry about one such a thing. The messenger saluted again and left.

Upon inspection it was an unimpressive envelop with a red sting making a cross at its middle. The seal, however, was important indeed. He recognized it instantly. It had never been oppressed from his memory because it brought back several bitter memories. Some were joyful most were not.

It was the British Royal Seal.

Through simple deduction it was easy to tell who it was from. If it was from a more official governmental source it would have travelled the proper channels to reach him. But he didn't want to open it. Not now, maybe not ever. All he could see coming from it were a string of "I told you so" or other longwinded speeches that he had heard to many times before. He did not want to hear from _him_ right now.

America placed the letter on his black trunk and continued to take down his tent. After everything was in its proper place and taken down his slug his plain sack of belongs over his should and dragged his truck with his free hand. As he walked through the camp he bid his final goodbyes and gave salutes where they were deserved, he spotted a campfire that was almost dying. After giving one last wave to his men he turned and walked away, as he passed the fire he placed the white envelope on the fire and let it slip from his thoughts as it turned to ash.


	3. Chapter 3

England paced in front of the Prime Minister.

"What do you mean there is still no word? Nine months and still nothing?! I cannot sit idle and watch as America crumbles beneath itself!" England shouted.

"Now, Arthur, we still have our trade with both sides of it, keeping our neutrality. The north sends us grain and we send them weapons and other munitions. The south seems to only spare what they can, and we continue to equal that."

"Is that not favouritism?" England questioned.

"Not when they don't have anything to trade in return. The grain is more important right now anyways," The Prime Minister said.

England knew that France was having trouble with their crops recently.

"Is it all about trading? Can we please do more?"

England was frustrated. He didn't want to wait, but he also knew that he couldn't rush into such a situation.

"Well it's all we can do until we hear something. The Confederacy seems to want to export more cotton to us, but I don't believe they know we don't need it here in Britain."

England felt odd, but he chuckled at that. "King Cotton policy, is what they were calling it," The Prime Minister laughed.

England looked out the window. He knew he had to wait. He began to write more letters. He hoped someone would respond.

"You should try writing to Arthur Fremantle. I hear he has interest in travelling through the states as an observer. Perhaps you may persuade him to not go, and instead you take his place."

"You think he would let me?" England asked rather eagerly.

"It's worth a try."

* * *

 ** _One Month Later._**

It was a beautiful morning, it really was.

America took another sip of his stale coffee and he remembered that it had been a long time since he had time to enjoy nature. Most of the men were still sleeping and the silence was welcomed. He was now part of the newly formed Army of The Tennessee which was commanded by a man named Grant who he had never met before and he still didn't have a good read on the man.

He was now First Lieutenant Alfred Jones of the 8th Illinois. It was awkward for him at first. It was a bit strange for an officer to be placed into a regiment out of the blue, especially one that had yet to see battle. His cover was that his enlistment papers had been lost and he couldn't join them until they were found. A weak excuse and the men were worry of him at first and they treated him like an outsider, but when he perfectly told them what an Illinois winter was like, they lighted up and accepted him. He was placed in command of Company C which consisted of eighty-eight men.

So now he found himself on this early April morning in the wilderness of Tennessee, and they were looking for a fight.

"Mornin' Sir, ya taking a liking to the coffee today?" Jacobs, a portly Corporal who also doubled as the regiment's cook, asked happily. Jacobs was a man that America could only describe as being constantly jolly. He had never seen the man, who looked thirty years his senior, not smiling.

"Decent I suppose. I've had a lot worse." America answered and didn't take his eyes away from the pot boiling on the fire in front of him. The smell of breakfast was starting to fill the air.

"Oh thank you Sir. I've heard so much worse about it before, but what do the boys expect? These beans are some of the cheapest I've ever seen. I can't make gold outta bullshit." Jacobs explained, all the time a smile on his face.

After finishing his cup he returned it to Jacobs and went a walk around the camp. The men were starting to rise and he passed a few other officers and gave them salutes. He reached the end of where his regiment was camped and stopped. He was about to turn and walk back when he heard a sound in the distance. It wasn't distinguishable yet, just a distance roar, but he quickly turned on his heal and all but started to run back. As he got closer the sounds became easier to hear. Men yelling, the cracking of rifles, and the rumble of canon fire. Before he knew it he was back at Jacob's cooking fire and the other man were starting to take notice.

"Jacobs! Wake any man of our company who isn't on his feet and have them gather here!" he ordered. Jacobs quickly saluted and ran with the speed and grace of a man half his age and size. America had a moment of hesitation as he wasn't sure what to do next, but ultimately he decided to go find his commanding officer, Colonel Rhoades. It was his regiment; he should decide what they did. He turned and went in search of his tent. On the way there he swiftly and effortless loaded his revolver and returned it to its holder. Just as he got there he heard a musket ball fly over his head and then the yelling started. That high pitched yell he _hated_ with all his being. Colonel Rhoades emerged from his tent and stared directly at him, the look of concern on his face would be comical in any other situation.

"Jones, what's going on here?!" he shouted.

"I fear it's an attack Sir. I have my company forming off to the right where we were encamped. What do you want me to do Sir?" he answered calmly while in his salute stance. Rhoades, who had become the Colonel of the regiment just six days ago, had a mix of shock and uneasiness on his mature face. After a few seconds America lost his patience. He took a few steps closer so that he was within ear shot of only Rhoades before saying in a polite but firm tone.

"Sir, should we not form line and prepare a defensive position?"

"Y-yes, return to your company and tell all company commanders to form line and wait for my orders." He said.

America saluted and turned once again. By now the camp had become a swirling vortex of semi-organized chaos, but he had no time, he had to return to his company. He knew that their regiment was the right flank of their brigade and it could spell disaster for them if he couldn't organize a proper defense. When he returned to his men the battle was in full swing. He drew his sword and immediately began to organize his men into a strong line and have them release a hot amount of fire into the oncoming enemy.

The screams of pain, the yelling of orders, the pop of muskets, all these things flooded his ears. He heard it all before, but it was different now. He could _feel_ it was different. Those men on the other side were once American's. They were once apart of him, and he _hated_ them now. Did they not have enough? Was _he_ not good enough for them? He knew he shouldn't think of these questions now but they were ever present in his mind.

He lost track on time but after a while the rebels in front of them pulled back and the men in blue let of a shower of hoorahs.

"They runnin' Sir!" a young boy, no more than eighteen turned and shouted at him. America nodded and sighed, but before he realized the men started to advance.

"Wait boys you-"he tried to say but his voice couldn't reach anyone over the sound of their cheering. He looked to where his company heading and through the smoke and trees he could plainly see the grey uniforms and red flags coming towards them. He watched as they slowly raised their muskets to fire a volley into them and instinctively he reached for the boy who had spoken to him a second earlier and pulled him down.

Then the cracking sound ripped through the air he felt the familiar wet smack of his bone shattering as a ball slashed through him. The boy tried to help him stand and he shouted franticly at him but no sound reached his ears. The taste of his own blood on reached his mouth and re tried to speak.

"Hold the…line…wait for Colonel Rhoades…" he said in a faint whisper. Then came the sinking feeling with all things growing dark before letting one last thought run through his mind.

 _"_ _Please, don't let this be the last day…"_


	4. Chapter 4

England had continued to write to Arthur Fremantle in hopes he would get a reply soon. He hoped with references by the Prime Minister and the Queen herself would help change Fremantle's mind.

In the meantime, England decided to see how France was doing. France had set England up in his house. It was a different atmosphere than his own country, but he was moderately comfortable due to growing up with France.

"I don't know what to do," France said as he sipped on some red wine. He had offered some to England, but he didn't much care for the taste.

"What do you mean?" England asked as he read the French newspaper. It also was keeping tabs on the American war.

"Cotton is rising in price. The Union blockade is cutting most of our cotton supplies for our mills. A _famine du coton_ ," France said, muttering the last bit in his natural tongue.

"I wish I could help, mate. We will barely have enough ourselves if this war lasts any longer."

"Do you have the people over there supporting both sides?" France asked as he looked dreamily out the window. England could tell France didn't want his own country divided.

"Nothing too major, I suppose. It seems the public favours the United States, while a few of the political powers are in favour of the Confederacy."

"I know exactly how that feels. We want to grow an empire in Mexico," France said as he stood up, lost in thought, "It can be quite beautiful there too. The sun is bright, the days are warm, and the people…"

England smirked at the thought. France likes to see the beauty in everything. His smile faded as he realized how an empire in Mexico could ruin France's image to the United States.

"France, can I ask, do you know if there are troops in Mexico? Mexico is rather close to the Confederacy…"

"I wouldn't see why there wouldn't be troops there. That's why we have many in favour of the Confederacy. They probably wouldn't have a problem with our dream for Mexico."

England didn't want to object. He didn't need any tension between him and France. He just hoped France wouldn't seem like a threat to the United States. With a sigh, France looked back to England.

"Let's not focus on the negative right now. You're here and my guest. Let's go see the sights, eh?"

"That sounds delightful. It'll take my mind off of waiting to hear back from Arthur."

France frowned slightly. "Why would you want to replace him and go in the middle of that chaos?"

England stood up, straightened his suit jacket, and said, "I feel it's my duty. I raised America. It hasn't been that long since he has been on his own."

"Do you blame yourself?"

England looked away. "For some reason, I suppose I do."

"Well don't," France bluntly stated.

He didn't expect such a quick reaction from France. It was shocking to hear, but it helped knowing it wasn't his entire fault; at least in the eyes of France. "Right, well let's be off." England replied, beckoning for France to lead the way.

* * *

 ** _Four Months Later._**

Washington had become a gloomy city draped in blue both in colour and feeling.

America found himself walking the busy streets lost in thought. The sidewalk was packed with people, normal citizens and men in uniforms. The soldiers had long sense given up trying to salute everyone of superior rank that they passed and had settled for polite nods instead. He had no destination really; he just had to feel like he was doing something.

He had been in Washington for a while now. He was waiting for an officer's position to open up in one of The Army of The Potomac's regiments. It wasn't like there weren't open spots but finding one that wouldn't raise eyebrows was hard. And he had to stay in the east; there could be no debate about that. It had taken him three days to "recover" and wake up. The President had informed him that the retrieval of his body and its transfer half a continent away was more of a difficult task then he imagined and that he now owed people favours that he didn't want to be in debt to. As was tradition sense Washington himself, only the President knew what he really was. There were those who knew of him and knew enough to know he was not what one could call normal, but his actual identity was known only by Lincoln. Thus, he had agreed that he would remain in the East, where it was easier to manage such things, until the war reached it end. At the very least the battle in which he died, which had been given the name Shiloh, had become a Union victory.

"I wish I could have seen it happen"

So now he was stuck in Washington doing nothing.

Things were not fairing as well for the Union army in the East. McClellan had continued his great peninsula campaign and ironically right after America left it started to show some promise. But then a man named Lee took control of the Confederate forces in the area and the tide turned. Lee seemed to best McClellan at all the most important moments. Or at least that's how America interpreted it through the rumours he heard and what the papers said. So now McClellan's campaign had run a ground and Lee was on the move. There were even rumours he may invade the North. He hadn't seen any fighting sense Shiloh, but he could _feel_ the war raging all over the continent.

After side stepping a carriage he turned right down the street and started to make his way towards the white house. The President had sent word that he wanted to see him and America desperately hoped it was to give him his next assignment. When he turned his head he was met with a surprising, and in his mind, dreadful sight.

A large group of what he could only assume were slaves or former slaves were walking by. Their clothes were ripped and torn in places, as well as been caked in mud. Mothers held their children on their backs or lead those who could walk by their hands. The man carried what few positions they had on their backs in messy bundles of cloth. All of them made their way along guided by a few officers that waved them in the proper direction. He felt empty as he watched their slow sad march.

"Contraband."

A voice dragged him from his thoughts and he turned to where it came from. An older officer, a Major to be exact, was standing next to him. He had a large moustache on his face that seemed to help mask his neutral express. Unsure of what to say or do America opted for a slow half-hearted salute. It was returned before the Major continued.

"Yep, from somewhere in the Carolina's I believe, seems no one knows what to do with them."

"I see…" was all he could offer to the conversation. He remained silent and at some point the Major left him there staring.

He could remember a time in his past when it was so simply clear and no one could change his mind. Then he remembered when things became to get clouded and the uncertainty of it all frustrated him. Now, things were perfectly clear again to him. He finally willed himself to move after God knows how long. He turned, started to walk away, pulled his hat as far down on his head it could go, and felt nothing but shame.

The knocks on the door was soft but swift.

"Come in, come in."

America walked into the President's office and saw him hunched over his desk with a pen in his hand. He pulled the glasses from his face and placed him in his breast pocket before waving him over.

"Oh sit down, how have you been son?" he asked cheerfully.

Of all the things that were ever changing in his world, at least the Presidents attitude remained the same, though it looked like he had aged a whole ten years since he took office.

"I've been fine Sir. I hope I wasn't interrupting from doing something important." America responded and eyed the documents on his desk before taking a seat.

"Well…that remains to be seen I think."

Then the two of them proceeded to talk about everything and nothing at the same time. It was casual small talk mostly. The worries of war seemed to leave them behind for the time being and for a few times America genially smiled. The nation truly enjoyed these talks, even to the point of _needing_ them. The President's quick wit was truly amazing to him. At some point however, the conversation took a more serious turn and America found his words laced with hate.

"Their reasons are so _wrong_ Sir, can they really think of themselves as oppressed? Do they really think _this_ is right? I can't forgive them. I won't forgive them! If it was up to me…I'd be done with them all!" America all but yelled with venom dripping from his lips.

Lincoln simply stared at him with his hands folded and calmly waited for the nation to regain his composer. After it was clear he had, America spoke again.

"Forgive me Sir…I know I shouldn't think that way."

"Well…I don't know about that. It's just how you feel. I think I can understand it somewhat, but then again, you are very different from me…" Lincoln began and stood up. America followed suite.

"But I'll tell you what I do know. This war….is to make America, to make you son, better then you were before. It's to preserve the Union of course but the North can't be the same as it was when this is all said and done. And when our friends to the South return to us they will be better for it to. _All_ of us will be better off when this war is over. It's easy to hate them, God knows I'm as frustrated as a man my age can get about it, but I think there's already enough hate being put into the world from this. But like I said son, I don't know what it's like to be like you…"

The Presidents words sank deep into his mind. This man, with this man the light of the end of the tunnel felt reachable.

"Sir" America said suddenly and gave the crispest salute he had given in months. "I will try my best Sir!"

Lincoln nodded.

"That's all I ever ask of anyone."

Lincoln then reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. "As always, I'm late. Dinner was served five minutes ago. I fear for the servants if they must hear of Mary's dissatisfaction of my attendance record."

"Then you better hurry Sir."

America walked around the desk and took the Presidents jacket from its resting place on the coat rack. He then held it behind Lincoln and watched as he slipped his arms into it before he popped it into place on his long frame.

"Oh before I forget…" Lincoln reached for an envelope from his desk and handed it to America. "Your new orders"

The young nation at war looked at the white paper in his hand and ran his thumb over it. Now it was back into the fray for him.

"Thank you Sir, I look forward to it."


	5. Chapter 5

England decided to stay in France for the past several months. He watched as the prices of trade goods raised and it affected France. It didn't take his mind off of the war for one minute. He was enjoying his time away from home. He didn't have the Prime Minister constantly bickering about how they had to stay neutral. England _knew_ they had to stay neutral. He distasted the thought of people supporting slavery, though. They had fought to get rid of it decades before. England knew it wasn't just about slavery too.

On the streets of Paris, England walked beside France. They both wore their war-time uniforms. It showed they had some sort of stand on the war. As France had put it, it gave the public some sort of happiness, like the two of them were on the public's side. In most cases, England was. The public liked the United States, the Union. That's where England assumed America was. There was no response at all from him, so he wasn't sure. He couldn't make himself believe that America would claim what the Confederacy was. _Oppression._ It reminded him of the Revolution.

People saluted him and France. He would smile as he knew they had no idea who they were besides high-ranked officers.

"Such a beautiful day." France said as he winked towards some French girls.

"It's quite sunny here." England mentioned. It was common conversation for his people to talk about weather at any given point.

"That's only because you're always covered in clouds. So when do you plan on going back?"

"I still haven't received any word from Fremantle, so I will leave in a week. I must see him."

"What if he thinks your references are not genuine? They are too good for just any officer of the British Army."

England hadn't thought about that. He had been concentrating on receiving a reply. "You're right. He may think it a prank of sorts. Seeing him in person will surely clear things up."

England felt like he had seen all there is to see of France in his time there. He was a big fan of tradition and the culture of it. His home was so rich with tradition.

"Do you think anyone else would like to see you while you're on this side of the water? What about Spain, Germany, or Italy?" France asked him.

He had spent so much time with just France and a bunch of servants, he didn't even think about visiting anyone else. "They probably would be bothered with our issues. We are the only ones affected by the war. Probably best to leave them be." England replied.

"You're probably right. Spain is having his own problems."

"So I've heard," England stated as they reached France's house. Sebastian was at the front, along with France's servants.

"How was your walk, sir?" Sebastian asked with a bow.

"It was quite nice. If you would be so kind, and ask George to be in my room. I'd like to change for tea."

"Yes sir." Sebastian replied.

" _Ack,_ not every meal is tea." France mumbled.

France motioned for all of his servants to head back inside. England changed into his dinner clothes and met back with France in the dining room. France was dressed in his usual clothes, or at least it appeared like it. French attire was rather different in England's eyes.

"So what are we having tonight?" England asked as he took the seat next to France. With little or no guests, it was accustom to sit close together for talking purposes. England liked the parties small, because it was tradition to only talk to someone for so long, before you would have to talk to the person on the other side of you.

"The cooks had made many French dishes. I'd rather not go into detail, because I'd not like to hear about your nasty food."

England's face reddened with anger. "You haven't even tried any of it."

France laughed heartily. His blond hair swayed with each movement. England's expression changed. For a moment there, he felt like life was back to the usual. But in all truth, it wouldn't be for a while.

* * *

 ** _September 16_** ** _th_** ** _1862\. Outside Sharpsburg, Maryland_**

Orange camp fires dotted the dark field and the feeling was a mixed mess of calm and anticipation. America was growing tired of the fact that beautiful days and nights seemed to always be followed by horrific battles. He found himself on this cool night sitting on a stool next to one of those campfires with his new regiment scattered in the immediate area. The now Captain Alfred Jones stared blankly at the starry sky. His new assignment had come with a promotion. Or as Lincoln and jokingly put it "to take a little of weight off my shoulders and to put it on yours." But little had changed he noticed, an extra bar on each of his shoulders and a few less people to salute was about all.

The 61st New York was a fairly small regiment. Their number barely reached three hundred and fifty men so when compared to some regiments that numbered well over a thousand they seemed very small. But the men were no less ready and able to fight, America had noticed. They were all veterans of the Peninsula Campaign and had seen combat. The men were all close as well and this actually became a disadvantage. The previous Captain that held the command of Company was very welled liked before illness had suddenly taken him which made America's entry into the regiment possible. He wasn't met with outright hostility but far from a warm welcome either. Even now as the men who were still awake spoke happily with one another they all left him alone. He understood this situation though and he thought little of it. His mind was more occupied with the entire army's situation.

There was going to be a battle tomorrow, a big one, maybe the biggest any America had ever seen.

As time marched into September the rumours that Lee was going to invade the North had become fact. His army had crossed the Potomac River into Maryland and that brought them closer to Washington. McClellan, who had done little since the Peninsula Campaign had ended, had no choice but to pursue. There had been a battle two days before that his regiment did not take part in, but little was resolved from it and both sides went their separate ways but kept in close contact with each other. Now the rest of their forces were gathering it seemed obvious that tomorrow would be the day they would go at each again. The Union men were encamped by a creek called Antietam.

America heard footsteps coming from behind him and noticed it was his commanding Officer Colonel Barlow. The younger looking man got to his feet and saluted. Barlow, a stern looking man with a clean shaved face saluted back but said nothing. He had spoken with America and the other officers before they made camp earlier in the day and explained what he knew of their situation. With nothing more to say to him he gave a nod of understanding and went about inspecting the rest of the regiment.

America watched as he despaired into the darkness and the sinking feeling of the reality of the next day continued to drag his mind down. The sound of a sad violin danced in the air, he sat down again, and looked to the glowing fire.

* * *

"Fall in boys!" America shouted out.

It had been five in the morning when Colonel Barlow woke America while he slept in his tent. He was told to wake his Company and have them form up and wait for orders. The rest of their brigade which contain five regiments including their own was told to ready to move at any moment. So now America stood in front of his men and looked down the line to see the rest of the 61st in perfect line and he could just make out the regimental colours of the other regiments on his left and right. This filled him with pride and the worry of the night before seemed far away. They were ready now. It was not like at Bull Run where they were disorganized and undisciplined. Nor was it like Shiloh where they had been caught by surprised. Every man knew his job and could do it.

Colonel Barlow rode his horse down the line and each company commander saluted as he passed. When he reached the end of their regiment, he turned around and started back before stopping when he reached the center of their line next to their colour barrier.

Now all they could do was wait, and it didn't take long before the sound of canon and musket fire came from their right. It was barely five thirty in the morning and the sun had barely appeared

He found himself trying to imagine what was happening by the sounds they heard. The only sound in the area was the occasional messenger galloping by at high speed. Time went by and yet they did not move. The sun went higher and soon it was bright and hot. Some of them men unbuttoned their collars to relieve them of the heat. Something he knew he should reprimand them for it, but he said nothing.

Finally at what he could only assume was nine, the sound of the battle had moved in front of them. Movement could be seen and heard coming from their right and to a man they looked off into the distance as the brigade to their right began to move forward. The pounding of drums and blowing of trumpets erupted in the air. The other men, including their regiment let out cheers and took off their hats. The advancing brigade's colours could just be made out. A green flag snapped in the wind next to the stars and stripes. It was the Irish brigade. They faded into the distance and quiet returned. Only to be broken by the sound of battle that was now close to them which meant they had the added noise of screams and shouts to accompany them. Yet still, they had to wait.

After an hour or so, finally the triumph call came, and it told them to advance.

America drew his sword from its place on his side and rested it on his shoulder.

"Forward!" was heard coming from the left and he along with the other officers echoed it down the line.

"March!"

The drummers started to pound away and the whole brigade started forward at a slow and steady pace. Colonel Barlow could be seen riding up and down the lines shouting things of encouragement like "come on boys!" to which the men resounded with cheers.

All that could be seen in front of them were grassy hills and the occasional cluster of trees. They continued on this way for a few minutes with nothing changing. But then the screaming of a shell ripped through the air and landed with a crash behind them. More followed but most of the men were barely fazed, they had heard the loud roar of the canon so many times now that it was almost beneath their notice. But then a shot hit there line and was first followed by screams of shock and then screams of pain. A few men lay on the ground to his right. They seemed to be in bad shape and were struggling to pick themselves back up. A few of their comrades broke out of line to check on them and that's when America looked away. He felt heartless at first but then he remembered that he didn't have time for that.

"Hold the line! Keep moving!" he shouted but did not look back.

They were about to reach the crest of another hill and judging by the sound, they were almost to the enemy. But when they reached the top they surprisingly saw little in front of them. America could practically feel the confusion of the men and he felt the same. _Where the hell have they sent us?_ He thought to himself. But the canon shots kept coming and now the sound of muskets came from their right. When he turned to look he instantly began to evaluate the situation. The field of green far to their right was littered with piles of blue that use to be men. Up and to the right he could see the enemy. A large line of brown and grey with red flags flying were behind a fence on what he could only assume was a dirt road. They were still far off though and only the occasional musket shot flew high over their heads. He now understood what had happen. They had sent brigade after brigade right at that rebel line in hopes to dislodge them, but it had evidently not worked out. And weather by design or accident, he truly did not know which; their brigade was sent far to the right and now had a chance to flank them.

At the moment a ruckus could be heard coming from his own line to the write and he saw Barlow riding down the line at the top of his speed. His commanding officer's eyes meet with his and he slide to a stop, his horse whining in protest.

"The 64th found a damn good spot to fire on the rebs. Shift all the boys to the right at the double quick and follow them. I'll get the rest of the brigade to follow suit." He said franticly but clearly. Barlow stopped to take a breath before wheeling his horse around and shouting over his shoulder. "We can break that damn line Jones!"

After a firm salute the young Colonel was gone.

Needing to be told nothing else America turned and his back heel and began to walk backwards.

"Right wheel, forward double quick, march!" he shouted and swirled his sword in the air to let his commands be known to anyone who couldn't hear him. He turned back around and started his new march. At this point, he could only hope the other companies in the regiment would follow suit. He took a quick look over his shoulder and saw that his men had abandoned the slow march for the semi-in rhythm frantic jog.

The pounding of their feet started to kick up dirt and the dust enveloped their lower bodies. The cannon and musket fire kept coming at them at the same pace and every few steps a men would suddenly not be there anymore, but right on they moved. At last they reached the 64th, which happen to be another regiment from New York. They were at the top of a hill and were pouring fire into the rebel lines. Not needing much instruction his men reformed their lines and fired away. He took a glance and saw with relief that the rest of the regiment was doing the same. He kept his men in line and encouraged them as well has taking a few shots with his revolver when the time felt right. The sound of musket fire and horse screams filled the air. The brown and grey line was quickly been rippled with splashes of red. But they were closer now, and they were starting to take heavier fire themselves. America held his sword over his head and kept directing his men.

"Keep up your fire-"his order was cut short by his own scream. Not a scream of pain but more of shock. A ball had slammed into his right arm and knocked his sword out of his hand. The force of the impact had knocked him down as well. The roaring sound around him seemed to fade away. All that could be heard was his own heart beat pounding rapidly away as if it would burst. His adrenaline was starting to fade; he knew the pain would take its place.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" he heard being shouted down at him. He looked up and saw the bearded face of Sergeant John O'Neil. "Ya need to see the Surgeon sir! I'll take ya!" the black haired man began to reach down but America waved his good arm up at him in protest.

"Keep the men in line! If the order comes to advance go, I'll be there sure enough just give me time." America blurted out all in one breath. O'Neil looked down at him as if he was unsure if he should obey, but the look in his Captain's eyes were to serious not to what he was told.

"Yessir!" he shouted and returned to the mass of blue.

He let out a sigh of relief and followed it with a grimace of pain. He had to get away; he had to see how bad it was and not be in the middle of a fight like this. He pushed himself up with his left hand and looked at the ground for his sword. It was lying on the ground with his blood splattered all over it. In a swift movement he grabbed the hilt and started hobbling away as it dragged behind him. He bumped into a seemingly endless group of men in blue before escaping the crowd and seeing the field of green and brown in front of him. He sifted his vison from back to right until he found a loan tree. It would have to do. He had to deal with this and get back to his men. He rushed to the tree and through himself down next to it.

Now that he was as alone as he could get at the moment he finally looked at his right arm. The blue of his uniform had been turned black with his blood. It looked like the shot had entered at his elbow and travelled up his arm before exiting at his shoulder. Moving the limb was now impossible. It was mangled, and he knew the only remedy for an injury like this.

Amputation.

He had been injured, even killed before, but he had had nothing like this happen to him. Would it grow back? If it did, how in the world would he explain it? He had too many questions and no answer. In the end he decided to go with the one thing he did know. If he had enough time, it would heal. Even now he could feel the dozen of bone fragments that use to make up his arm slowly moving back to their proper place. But how long would it take? He had no idea, but he had to get back, they could move at any time. He decided to wrap his arm the best he could and hope for the best. With his left hand and a pocket knife he kept in his pocket he started to cut a long strip of material from his pants. It wasn't too hard to use his left hand for this. He was more or less ambidextrous though his right was the dominate one. He started at the top of his shoulder and began wrapping it. He gritted his teeth and held back the scream of pain that wanted to erupt from his throat. Finally he reached the bottom and pulled it tight. This time he didn't hold back his voice.

"Dammit all!" he hissed.

When it was done he looked down at his work. His arm still looked bad and the new fabric was quickly turning black but it would have to do. He pushed off the tree with his good arm and stood. He nearly fell back down from light-headedness; he had lost a lot of blood, but it didn't matter. He retrieved his sword from the ground and returned it to its scabbard on his side. Looking back at the action to his left he saw that the sea of blue was starting to move, and that they were leaving several blue spots on the ground behind them. Swiftly moving forward he grabbed his revolver from his side and check it. Three shots, he would have to be conservative. He found his company fairly quickly found his company and shouts of encouragement rained down on him.

He looked back to where the enemy had been before he went down. Their line had almost dissolved and what was left was retreating. Some more organized then others. Seeing that the other officers around were having their men advance he did the same.

"Come on boys follow me!"

Away they went the tidal wave of blue rushing towards the fence and the where the men in grey had once been. A few shots where still coming at them from some of the rebels before they turned and ran. His company reached the fence and went around being met with a grim sight. The sunken road was filled with mangled bodies dressed in brown and grey and splattered with blood. He didn't want to look, nothing was decided, and he had learned long ago that there was no reason to care about the dead when there was still living men struggling. They followed their retreating enemy and this brought them directly over the fallen mass of men in front of them. The men at first were hesitant but then pushed forward and tried not to trip over the tangled limbs and bodies.

"Sorry." A younger man muttered as he nearly tripped and kicked a former rebel in the face as a result.

"Shut it boy!" an older man next to him hissed.

America understood that. If you give them an apology it's a reminder that these 'things' were once men and it is easier if that fact is forgotten. But right as they got passed the road and horse and rider appeared right in front of him. He looked up and saw Major Collins of his regiment.

"Hold up here Jones! Our orders are to maintain this position." The older man explained intensely while looking down at him. As if his words didn't register America replied back immediately.

"Sir, where is Colonel Barlow?"

Collins looked down and away before turning back.

"His been hit, it looks bad. I've taken command of the regiment." He explained in a slower pace. America now had a better understanding of the situation but he still felt lost.

"Sir, why do we not advance?! The rebs are on the run, if we push forward we could split their whole damn army!" he shouted back.

Collins looked away and readjusted himself in his saddle. His eyes looked over the men and then looked behind them with a look of anger as if cursing someone.

"Those orders come from McClellan himself." He said through clinched teeth as if in discuss. "Deploy skirmishers and take a defensive position Captain." With that he galloped away and said no more.

America was in shock. Too many thoughts ran through his head for him to even begin to know what to do, but he felt the eyes of his men on him. They were waiting for his orders. With a click of the tongue and a sinking feeling in his gut he relented.

"Deploy skirmishers…"


	6. Chapter 6

England was back home. He had settled in for a few days before he decided to take his visit to Fremantle. With no reply from him or America, England was getting anxious to have some new news.

After a ride over to Arthur Fremantle's house, England readied himself for whatever would happen when the door would open. He patiently waited until a man maybe entering his 30s opened the door. It was Fremantle.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"Hi, I don't know if you've received my letters, but I am Arthur Kirkland. I was writing to see if I could join you in your trip to America in several months."

Fremantle eyed England carefully. " _You're_ the one who has references from the Queen and the Prime Minister? You don't look like much…"

"I'm a lieutenant colonel in the British Army."

"Are you now?" Fremantle said with a smirk. England knew he was of the same rank.

After a few seconds of silence, Fremantle looked to him and said, "Come on in, boy. We have some things to discuss."

England walked inside in front of Fremantle as he closed the door. Inside, England could tell Fremantle had a fascination with this American war. There were newspapers all over with each update on the battles and the effects they had on trade.

"Wow, this is all I've kept on as well," England admitted.

"Studying this has become a hobby of mine. I can tell you've heard of my venture to the states. I would like to see it up close. The South wish for our help, as I'm sure you know."

"Yeah, I've heard. But I know we also have to stay neutral. We wouldn't want the Union turning on us. Especially our own people are rooting for the United States over the South anyways. They would be sure to riot if we brought war upon ourselves."

"Don't think so drastically, Mr Kirkland. But I do understand completely. I don't care much for either of their causes, as to keep to the neutral mind set."

England sat down in the sitting room. Fremantle only had a few servants. He probably preferred to be helping the Army, than being at home anyways.

Fremantle had his servants serve tea and then he joined England. After sipping his tea, he sighed. "To be honest, I'm doubting the trip now."

England tilted his head and asked, "Why is that?"

"Well, fellow members in the British Army tell me it would cause problems regardless. If even observing the South would cause problems in the North, I am at a loss. I do not want to be the one to be known for making the North turn on us just because of my fascination in this war."

England smiled to himself. He knew he could take advantage of this situation.

"Yeah that sounds like a tough situation. Is there anything that can be done?" England asked carefully as he took a sip of the tea. It was nice to have tea made by English again.

Fremantle scratched his head. "Well honestly, I thought about your letters. No offense, but I haven't heard about you in the army. If others are like me, the North would almost have no idea about you observing."

England had to chuckle. Even with references from the Queen and Prime Minister, he is almost hidden within the ranks of the army. He liked it that way. He never wanted to bring attention to himself.

"I can see your point. I assume the army wants some notes on this situation?" England asked carefully.

"Yeah, that'd be required. The Army would be funding the journey, and they would like something in return."

England nodded and sipped some more tea. He was surprised how well this ended up. He didn't want to be watched if he tried to find America while he was over in the States.

"I see. Well Arthur, I am more than happy to take your place, as much as it hinders your hobby."

"Mr Kirkland, I'd be fine with you in my place. With your references, I don't doubt your ability to do what needs to be done."

"For Queen and country as they say, right?" England said proudly.

"That they do." Fremantle laughed heartily.

England smiled as they shook hands. He was one step closer to finding out what happened to America.

* * *

They had to stay in that place in their newly formed lines for nearly an hour. With the sunken road behind them full of bodies it felt like they were guarding the dead. He sent the wounded of his company off to the nearest field hospital and with them some of the wounded rebels, or at least any that looked like they had a chance. Finally Major Collins returned and said that their brigade would be relieved. Another brigade took their place and not much of a fuss was made, the next day was sure to bring plenty of fighting after all. They fell back to the wooded area they had started at more or less. Sound continued to erupt in the area but it came from the right this time. They were officially on stand by and had orders to move out as soon as possible if they were needed so it wasn't as if they were resting. Time dragged on and America noticed that the sun was starting to set. He had forgotten all of this had been one day, it had been so long. They remained like this until the sun was almost gone. It was perhaps six in the evening if he had to guess. That's when the noise stopped and they were drowning in silence. Finally the order to make camp came then for any wounded to make their way to the field hospital, and he was undoubtedly wounded.

His arm had been throbbing like a tooth ache and he was praying with all his might that it had healed enough. It dangled lifeless at his side as he dragged his heavy legs along. He was then directed to a white painted farm house that had a river of men in blue around it. It seemed to be untouched by the battle and an air of gloom was hanging over it. It somehow managed to be an even more depressing place then the one he had come from. The lines to the surgeon were wrapped along the building. He got in one and did what he felt like he mostly done that day. Wait.

That wasn't to say that there weren't things to do. The organization of the line was soon forgotten and the surgeon soon went back and forth to exam any man that looked like he didn't have much time left. These made America witness the event that awaited most of the men waiting. Amputation. He also had to take on the uncomfortable job of helping hold a man down as they hacked his leg away. It was something he had to witness before and he was sure he'd see it again. But that didn't absolve him of the absolute dread of the experience. But as time made its steading march the "line" was slowly fading away. Several times he was approached by the surgeon or a nurse but he would wave them off, claiming that another man needed more attention. This was both the truth and a covenant way for him to buy time. After a while though, the supply of other men was almost gone.

He now found himself in a secluded bed room in the back of the building. He sat at the end of a bed with a now sleeping man recovering on it. The sheets that he assumed were at one time a pale blue were now a deep red. The man's deep breathing being the only sound in the room other than the clinking of a nearby nurse's efforts at cleaning up. She was swiftly throwing surgical tools into a bowl. She started to leave the room but as she did her feet got caught in the hem of her dress and she caught herself by grabbing the dresser next to the door. They both looked to source of her stumble and saw that the material was drenched in blood. She rolled up the end of her dress in her hands and gave him a sheepish look, as if to reassure him. A forced smile was all he could give her. She left and almost instantly the surgeon took her place. He was an older man with brown hair that was starting to grey. A large but well-kept mustache graced his face.

"Now then Captain, let's take a look at that arm shall we?"

With the speed and procession of a man who had done it many times, he quickly un-wrapped the dark piece of cloth that was snuggly clingy to his arm. The throbbing was still there but America knew better than to show it. The surgeon began to exam the arm in detail. He looked at the entry and exit wounds that were starting to scab over. Starting from the wrist he slowly felt the bone with his fingers and went upward. A puzzled look was on his face the whole time.

"Can you lift your arm over your head for me son?" he asked politely.

America instantly started to oblige him, though with much effort. Despite the stiffness and pain surging through it the arm started to rise. While withholding a grunt of exertion his hand made it above his head at last. His face had stayed neutral the whole time as well.

"Alright, now make a fist for me."

The arm returned to his side and his fingers began doing what they couldn't do before. A fist covered in blood and dirt was now lying on his lap. The surgeon nodded as a response and stood behind the younger looking man. His hand went over the exist wound several times.

"Strange…." He muttered to himself.

America understood what was happening. The surgeon couldn't make sense of his wound. By all means his arm should be shattered and yet it was not. He had to move things along before he attracted too much attention.

"A million dollar shot then? I'm quite lucky. But if you think I'm fit for duty Sir, by all means I wish to return to my regiment." His voice was cheerful but also held a bit of force behind it. After a few moments of thought he received a response.

"I don't see why not." He said with a sigh. "Nurse, fresh wrappings." He called.

The same nurse from before returned to the room with the requested white cloth and the two of them rewrapped his arm. From the wrist to his shoulder was now a sheet of white with dark spots growing on it.

"Keep it dry, keep it clean, and have it re-wrapped the first chance you get." He was instructed.

"Yes Sir, thank you."

America snapped a salute and tipped his hat to the nurse before turning around and leaving. He had to get out of there he was sick of the iron scent of blood. He needed fresh air. When he got outside the smell followed him but it wasn't as thick. The night air was a relief of the highest order. He kept walking and soon his sight no longer held the dead and dying in it. It was instead filled with the camp after camp of men in blue. He needed to find his regiment so he could rest, he was near his limit.

He had dodged a bullet today, not literally of course, but he didn't exactly feel lucky about the situation he and his army were in. Sleeping was all he could do about it now though.


	7. Chapter 6 and a half

Sorry it has been so long since an update to this story. The writers, Matt and myself, have been busy. He and I were working on the days we would usually meet up and continue to write, and I eventually moved to another city. I have also been extremely busy with writing my 3rd book and writing my 4th book for NaNoWriMo. I recently had to get a day job to pay rent and that has taken up most of my time next to my novel writing. It seems kind of strange to spend my free time writing for books that don't sell, but I want to be a writer for a living, and maybe someday that will happen. Now that my third book is out and my 4th is done, I hope to spend more time getting back into this story. I have here the continuation of England's part, but not the next part of America's. Hopefully Matt and I can get back into writing this on a regular basis once again. If anyone would be interested in my fantasy and sci-fi book series on Amazon, I'd be so grateful. I'm Brandan Chapman, writer of Elements of Lightning, Elements of Blood, and Elements of Sight.

* * *

England was finally out of his uniform. He had put on the British naval uniform to blend in with other members that were boarding. He references had got him on board quite easily. He was glad to see the Queen still had the power to get him around places. He knew the Prime Minister may not always be so willing.

"We'll set sail within the hour!" A man yelled from aboard the ship.

England hadn't sailed to America in a long time. He knew it took many months to get there, especially if the weather wasn't agreeable. The ships now were much better at sailing, so it he assumed it wouldn't take nearly as long.

England leaned against the ships side rail. He always loved the sea. It reminded him of a much darker past, but it was still a part of him. He loved boats because he never learned how to swim. He thought it was funny, always being surrounded by water and he never decided to learn.

The waters were calm. He smiled and turned back towards inland. He hated leaving his home, but he knew he had to, for America. In the distance he could see Big Ben.

'Such a lovely addition to the scenery,' England thought, reminding himself of France. Big Ben was rather new, but England loved how it loomed over London. As he stared at the giant clock face in the distance, he could have sworn he saw something fly by it. He smirked, assuming it was a bird, but he had quite an imagination.

Before he knew it, England was already setting sail. London was slowly growing smaller and smaller. Big Ben stood tall and proud as a symbol of the silhouetting city.

Steam puffed from the top of several pipes rising from the boat. Many of the men on the ship were simple tradesmen. He hoped their boat would be able to get through the blockade that the Union had set up. The route made their trip seem even longer.

"So wot's the Navy got you doin' 'ere on a trade boat?" A man ask England, approaching him slowly.

"I'm taking notes on the American Civil War," England replied as he held up a satchel he carried. It had many notepads and other supplies to take notes.

"Taking notes? Wot is this, school?" The man replied with a laugh.

England smugly smiled in return. "Something like that, I suppose."

"You don't sound like one of them army men."

"I prefer a civil lifestyle," England said.

"Fat load of good that does. The Queen still lives like that, and what does she do? Nothing! We are losing money because we can't be aggressive in this war time. We need to take action if we want to keep this trade going! The Queen is a joke."

Something triggered inside of England. He immediately grabbed the man and held him face-first over the ship's railing.

"Don't you dare talk bad about our Queen!" He barked.

The man was panicked at England's swift reaction and strength. "Alright, mate! I'm sorry! Pull me back up!"

England realized what he was doing and pulled him up. The man scrambled away quickly. England simply sighed. He never wanted to return to the way he was in the past, but it was always there. The pirate within him.

He walked back into where the boats held bunks and sat down on one. He stared up at the metal ceiling that housed the beds. After a few seconds, his head dropped. He stared at the floor. He could already tell this was going to be a long journey.


End file.
